drive and slammed on his brakes, stopping inches behind Harry Rex’s Cadillac. He crawled out and lumbered toward them in the semidarkness, carrying what appeared to be a whole case of beer.
CHAPTER 8
When he was alone, Ray sat in the wicker chair across from the empty sofa, and tried to convince himself that life without his father would not be greatly different than life apart from him. This day was long in coming, and he would simply take it in stride and go on with a small measure of mourning. Just go through the motions, he told himself, wrap things up in Mississippi and race back to Virginia.
The study was lit by one weak bulb under the shade of a dust-covered lamp on the rolltop, and the shadows were long and dark. Tomorrow he would sit at the desk and plunge into the paperwork, but not tonight.
Tonight he needed to think.
Forrest was gone, hauled away by Harry Rex, both of them drunk. Forrest, typically, became sullen and wanted to drive to Memphis. Ray suggested he simply stay there. “Sleep on the porch if you don’t want tosleep in the house,” he said, without pushing. Pushing would only cause a fight. Harry Rex said he would, under normal circumstances, invite Forrest to stay with him, but the new wife was a hard-ass and two drunks were probably too much.
“Just stay here,” Harry Rex said, but Forrest wouldn’t budge. Bullheaded enough when he was cold sober, he was intractable after a few drinks. Ray had seen it more times than he cared to remember and sat quietly as Harry Rex argued with his brother.
The issue was settled when Forrest decided he would rent a room at the Deep Rock Motel north of town. “I used to go there when I was seeing the mayor’s wife, fifteen years ago,” he said.
“It’s full of fleas,” Harry Rex said.
“I miss it already.”
“The mayor’s wife?” Ray asked.
“You don’t want to know,” Harry Rex said.
They left a few minutes after eleven, and the house had been growing quieter by the minute.
The front door had a latch and the patio door had a deadbolt. The kitchen door, the only one at the rear of the house, had a flimsy knob with a lock that was not working. The Judge could not operate a screwdriver and Ray had inherited this lack of mechanical skill. Every window had been closed and latched, and he was certain that the Atlee mansion had not been this secure in decades. If necessary, he would sleep in the kitchen where he could guard the broom closet.
He tried not to think about the money. Sitting in hisfather’s sanctuary, he mentally worked on an unofficial obituary.
Judge Atlee was elected to the bench of the 25th Chancery District in 1959 and was reelected by a landslide every four years until 1991. Thirty-two years of diligent service. As a jurist, his record was impeccable. Rarely did the Appellate Court reverse one of his decisions. Often he was asked by his colleagues to hear untouchable cases in their districts. He was a guest lecturer at the Ole Miss Law School. He wrote hundreds of articles on practice, procedure, and trends. Twice he turned down appointments to the Mississippi Supreme Court; he simply didn’t want to leave the trial bench.
When he wasn’t wearing a robe, Judge Atlee kept his finger in all local matters—politics, civic work, schools, and churches. Few things in Ford County were approved without his endorsement, and few things he opposed were ever attempted. At various times he served on every local board, council, conference, and ad hoc committee. He quietly selected candidates for local offices and he quietly helped defeat the ones who didn’t get his blessing.
In his spare time, what little of it there had been, he studied history and the Bible and wrote articles on the law. Never once had he thrown a baseball with his sons, never once had he taken them fishing.
He was preceded in death by his wife, Margaret, who died suddenly of an aneurysm in 1969. He was survived by two sons.
And somewhere along the way he
CHAPTER 8
When he was alone, Ray sat in the wicker chair across from the empty sofa, and tried to convince himself that life without his father would not be greatly different than life apart from him. This day was long in coming, and he would simply take it in stride and go on with a small measure of mourning. Just go through the motions, he told himself, wrap things up in Mississippi and race back to Virginia.
The study was lit by one weak bulb under the shade of a dust-covered lamp on the rolltop, and the shadows were long and dark. Tomorrow he would sit at the desk and plunge into the paperwork, but not tonight.
Tonight he needed to think.
Forrest was gone, hauled away by Harry Rex, both of them drunk. Forrest, typically, became sullen and wanted to drive to Memphis. Ray suggested he simply stay there. “Sleep on the porch if you don’t want tosleep in the house,” he said, without pushing. Pushing would only cause a fight. Harry Rex said he would, under normal circumstances, invite Forrest to stay with him, but the new wife was a hard-ass and two drunks were probably too much.
“Just stay here,” Harry Rex said, but Forrest wouldn’t budge. Bullheaded enough when he was cold sober, he was intractable after a few drinks. Ray had seen it more times than he cared to remember and sat quietly as Harry Rex argued with his brother.
The issue was settled when Forrest decided he would rent a room at the Deep Rock Motel north of town. “I used to go there when I was seeing the mayor’s wife, fifteen years ago,” he said.
“It’s full of fleas,” Harry Rex said.
“I miss it already.”
“The mayor’s wife?” Ray asked.
“You don’t want to know,” Harry Rex said.
They left a few minutes after eleven, and the house had been growing quieter by the minute.
The front door had a latch and the patio door had a deadbolt. The kitchen door, the only one at the rear of the house, had a flimsy knob with a lock that was not working. The Judge could not operate a screwdriver and Ray had inherited this lack of mechanical skill. Every window had been closed and latched, and he was certain that the Atlee mansion had not been this secure in decades. If necessary, he would sleep in the kitchen where he could guard the broom closet.
He tried not to think about the money. Sitting in hisfather’s sanctuary, he mentally worked on an unofficial obituary.
Judge Atlee was elected to the bench of the 25th Chancery District in 1959 and was reelected by a landslide every four years until 1991. Thirty-two years of diligent service. As a jurist, his record was impeccable. Rarely did the Appellate Court reverse one of his decisions. Often he was asked by his colleagues to hear untouchable cases in their districts. He was a guest lecturer at the Ole Miss Law School. He wrote hundreds of articles on practice, procedure, and trends. Twice he turned down appointments to the Mississippi Supreme Court; he simply didn’t want to leave the trial bench.
When he wasn’t wearing a robe, Judge Atlee kept his finger in all local matters—politics, civic work, schools, and churches. Few things in Ford County were approved without his endorsement, and few things he opposed were ever attempted. At various times he served on every local board, council, conference, and ad hoc committee. He quietly selected candidates for local offices and he quietly helped defeat the ones who didn’t get his blessing.
In his spare time, what little of it there had been, he studied history and the Bible and wrote articles on the law. Never once had he thrown a baseball with his sons, never once had he taken them fishing.
He was preceded in death by his wife, Margaret, who died suddenly of an aneurysm in 1969. He was survived by two sons.
And somewhere along the way he
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